


Electric Mystrade

by TheRedheadinQuestion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedheadinQuestion/pseuds/TheRedheadinQuestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the past few months I've become nearly obsessed with Electric, the latest Pet Shop Boys album.  I listen to it almost non-stop.</p><p>And then something interesting began to happen.</p><p>Whenever the song "Thursday" comes on, I picture Greg trying to convince Mycroft to stay the weekend.  With "Love is a Bourgeois Construct", it's Mycroft dealing with what he thinks is a breakup with Greg.  So much so that I wanted to write these stories.</p><p>Then it occurred to me--use each song on the album as a Mystrade prompt.  And thus Electric Mystrade was born.  They'll be posted out of album order (as I finish them), and and most will be self-contained.  Some will be inspired by the lyrics, others by the beat.  We'll see what falls out of my head.</p><p>Ready?  Then let's hit it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thursday

"Get out of bed you must.  Or late you will be."

"Get out of bed you must.  Or late you will be."

"Get out of bed you must.  Or late you will be."

 

The occupants of the large bed in the master suite of the posh house in London stirred.  Mycroft groaned and turned off  the alarm.  Greg shuffled until his head rested on the other man's chest.  Mycroft worked an arm around his boyfriend and pulled him closer.

"Gregory, that alarm is horrid."

"Das wha makes it a good 'larm."  Greg said sleepily.

"The words of a fictional wizened green creature hardly qualifies as _good_."

"Is funny."  The Detective Inspector yawned.  "Wha day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Almos' the weekend."

"Quite a lot of business between now and then, dearest."  Mycroft kissed the top of Greg's head.  "And I'm afraid it begins with an early meeting." The British Government slid out of bed and headed to the en suite as Greg groaned and cuddled Mycroft's pillow.

When Mycroft returned, precisely fifteen minutes later, Greg sat up to watch him dress.  Sure, undressing him was much more fun, but there was something about seeing Myc sheath himself in layers of fine fabric, like a modern day suit of armour.  It did things to him. 

"Myc, stay with me for the weekend."  Greg said as long fingers buttoned the light grey waistcoat.

Mycroft glanced at him.  "I am.  I'm meeting you at yours Saturday afternoon, right after that despicably dull policy meeting."

"No."  Greg leaned forward and crawled, starkers, towards the foot of the bed where Mycroft sat to tie his shoes.  "Let's start tonight."  He said, kissing the back of his boyfriend's neck.  "Thursday.  Friday.  Saturday.  Sunday."

"I'm afraid that would be...."

Greg leaned forward and whispered into Mycroft's ear.  "Stay with me for the weekend."

Mycroft moaned and turned his head just enough to slide his lips against Greg's.  "Oh that I could Gregory."   His pocket buzzed, and Mycroft leaned forward and sighed.  He pulled out his mobile and glanced at the message.

"My first meeting has been moved forward an hour and the car is downstairs."  Mycroft threaded his fingers through the silver hair he loved and gave its owner a quick kiss.  "We'll speak later."

"You can count on it."  Greg sat back and winked at Mycroft.  "This isn't over."

"Good lord what you do to me."  Mycroft murmured as he left the room and headed to work.  Greg sat in bed for another few minutes, then he too hopped out and headed to a shower.

 

****

 

The morning was a blur of paperwork and reports when Sally popped her head in the door.  "Freak's here."  She barely got the words out when Sherlock rushed in, John hot on his heels. 

"Yes, Sergeant. Thank you for pointing out the obvious.  For your next trick, I suggest you go outside and determine the colour of the sky."

Sally gave Sherlock a nasty look and stomped away as the Consulting Detective threw himself into one of the chairs opposite Lestrade's desk. 

"I need a case.  A good one.  A serial killer or a locked room.  Even a kidnapping will do."

"Don't have one."

"Don't toy with me, Detective Inspector."

Greg levelled his eyes at Sherlock.  "You think I deliberately keep things from you?  That I like to hear you whinge about the lack of dedication amongst the criminals in this town?" His mobile buzzed, and he glanced at the text.

 

**_How goes the morning Gregory?  MH_ **

 

Greg smiled and thumbed a reply.

 

**_It'd be better if I knew you'd stay for the weekend.  GL_ **

 

A look of disgust flew over Sherlock's face.  "Never flirt with my brother in my presence!"  He stood and headed for the door.  "Come John, let's see what Molly's up to."

John paused for a moment.  "Sorry. You know how he gets."

"I hope, for your sake, he's one hell of a shag."  Greg said.

John broke into a wide grin.  "You have no...."

"Oh for God's sake!"  Sherlock's voice thundered down the hall.  "By all means, detail our sex life to the Detective Inspector.  Be sure and tell him about our morning interlude in the kitchen."

John turned scarlet and closed his eyes.

"Didn't need to hear that, mate."  Greg wished he could hit delete on the last fifteen seconds of his life. 

"Yeah, well."  John bumped into the door frame as he made his way into the hall and after Sherlock.

Greg turned back to his phone. 

 

**_I'd love to, but needs must, Gregory.  MH_ **

 

He rolled his eyes.

 

**_C'mon.  Don't fight it.  GL_ **

**_You know you want to.  GL_ **

 

Greg shoved the mobile into his pocket, then grabbed his completed paperwork and turned it in.  He headed outside and walked around the corner to the new Indian place for lunch.  Five minutes later, his pocket buzzed.

 

_**I regret that tonight is not possible. ML** _

 

"Like hell it's not."  Greg said to his mobile.

 

**_Thursday.  GL_ **

**_Friday. GL_ **

**_Saturday. GL_ **

**_Sunday. GL_ **

**_Stay with me for the weekend.  GL_ **

 

After lunch Greg returned to his office, pulled the curtains and locked the door.  He unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock from his pants.  He took a photo and attached it to a new text.

 

**_Remember last night, when my tongue made you lose the ability to speak? GL_ **

**_...at least until you screamed my name.  GL_ **

**_I'm not done.  It's not over.  GL_ **

 

Half an hour later, a new text arrived.

 

**_I shall not be swayed by your salaciousness, dearest.  However much I enjoy it.  MH_ **

**_I shall show you how much Saturday night.  MH_ **

 

Saturday.  Greg snorted. Had Myc ever experienced a long weekend?  One spent in laziness with no clothing and lots of snogging and sex?  Probably not. Mycroft had encountered many new things since they got together.  This was one whose time had come.

 

**_C'mon...don't fight it. The time is right for it. GL_ **

**_Thursday.  Friday.  Saturday.  Sunday.  GL_ **

**_Stay with me for the weekend.  GL_ **

 

Molly called. Sherlock found something in one of the bodies and Molly needed the Detective Inspector to take a look.

Three hours later, Greg was on the other side of London with a full team examining a murder scene.  Turns out that the seemingly natural death of an elderly man revealed a rare toxin in his system similar to a cold case from several years ago...one from the box Lestrade gave Sherlock for his birthday.  After some quick deducing on Sherlock's part, they arrested one Prudence Curtis for the serial poisoning of five men, one every ten years.

Donovan had just taken Prudence away in cuffs when Lestrade's phone buzzed.

 

**_What is this obsession you have with those four days?  MH_ **

 

**_C'mon!  Why Not?  GL_ **

 

Mycroft didn't reply and Greg grinned.  He could almost feel his boyfriend squirming.

"No!  No!  Absolutely not!"  Sherlock snatched the mobile from his hand and tossed it over to John. 

"Oi!  That's not yours."  Greg glared at Sherlock.  "What's your problem?"

"Don't sully my crime scene with your illicit affair. It's preposterous!"

 Greg crossed his arms.  " _Your_ crime scene?  Really?  I'll remember that next time you're begging for a case."

 John stepped between the two men.  "Are we done here?"  He asked Sherlock.  At his curt nod, John handed Lestrade his phone.  "Then let's go eat. Thai?"  Sherlock spun around in a huff and exited the front door, his coat streaming behind him. 

"Sorry mate."  John looked at Greg.  "He's still getting used to the idea of you and Mycroft."

"Yeah, well he better make peace with it or he'll be waiting a long time for the next case."

John nodded.  "Yeah, okay.  I'll talk to him.  Again."  He hurried after Sherlock.

Greg stared after them.  Sometimes he thought John should be sainted.  Or examined.  He shrugged and wrapped things up at the scene.  A mountain of paperwork later, he was finally finished and headed home.

He checked his phone on the tube.  No new messages.  Myc must be in a meeting.  Then he'd probably have another one and then an early conference call tomorrow and so on until their next actual date on Saturday.

Once home, Greg grabbed a beer and took a good long pull.  A hot shower sounded good.  Greg called for takeaway, then stood under the spray and let the water ease the tension of the day.  He stayed there until the hot water ran out, then he towelled off and threw on his dressing gown.  He drained the rest of his beer and contemplated the evening.  TV or a movie?  They both sounded cold and lonely.

The doorbell rang.  He grabbed his wallet and went to retrieve the food.

There, standing on the stoop, with a large bag of takeaway, was Mycroft.

"How?  What?"  Greg gaped.

"It was Thursday, Friday, Saturday _and_ Sunday, if I recall?  He leaned in to kiss Greg, who pulled him into the flat and swung the door shut.


	2. Love is a Bourgeois Construct

"You're impossible!  Do you understand me? Impossible!"  Greg threw on his coat and stormed out of Mycroft's office, slamming the door behind him.

The British Government sighed.  As much as he enjoyed his relationship with the Detective Inspector, he feared this would happen.  Gregory would tire of him and his impossible schedule, walk out and that would be that.  

Mycroft stared at the report in front of him, but the words swam and he couldn't make sense of it.  He shook his head.  How was this happening?  He, the great Mycroft Holmes, brought down by a mere mortal.  By love.

Love.  He snorted to himself.  How pedestrian.  How...bourgeois.  Yes, that was it.  Love was a bourgeois construct.  He was better off without it.

 Mycroft sighed and again focused on the report.  He made it through the second paragraph before his concentration evaporated.  He sighed even more deeply and picked up his desk phone. 

"Anthea, have the car brought around.  I'll be taking the rest of the day off."  That is, if the world could manage to keep itself upright until tomorrow.  Honestly, there were days when he had doubts. 

  
On the ride home, he gripped the handle of his umbrella and stared out the window at the populace.  Look at them.  Scrabbling along, no idea of the tragedies about to befall them.  He sniffed.  Really, Gregory did him a favor.  His eyes had been opened to the fallacy of love.  It never lasted and clouded one to the reality of life.

Mycroft stepped into his house, removed his shoes and placed them next to Gregory’s motorcycle boots.  He stared at them for a moment as his mouth grew dry.  He swallowed hard and went to the kitchen for some of that impossibly aged whiskey.  Mycroft leaned against the counter and sipped his drink, letting the liquid warm his throat.  Gregory never truly appreciated a fine whiskey.  Once he grabbed the bottle and dribbled it down Mycroft's body.  He did lick it off immediately afterwards, so perhaps crimes against drink could be forgiven for that.

Memories of that evening came flooding back.  Something turned over in Mycroft's stomach and slid into his groin.  He placed the glass on the counter harder than was strictly necessary, and a wave of brown liquid splashed his sleeve. 

He shook his head at the momentary lack of grace and went upstairs to his suite.  Mycroft unbuttoned the expensive shirt, slid it off his shoulders and went to his closet for another.  He flipped through the hangers but nothing appealed to him.  He thought of Sherlock--in cotton pyjama bottoms, tee and dressing gown, and a giggle escaped him.  How bourgeois.  Mycroft was beyond class, and it would show appropriately in his outfits.  A pair of purple silk pyjamas made their way onto his body, and he went to his en suite for his purple and green satin dressing gown.  He studied himself in the mirror.  Odd...yet strangely comfortable.  Mycroft snorted.  Comfort.  How bourgeois, just like love.  It's one of the reasons he wore three-piece suits.  It reminded everyone—including himself-- just how above everything he truly was.  Beyond royalty, beyond the wealthy, and certainly beyond middle class.  Truth be told, even the Detective Inspector.  But Gregory never saw it that way.  He’d often expressed how hot Mycroft was and how he enjoyed unwrapping him in the evenings, like his own personal gift.    No, Gregory had loved Mycroft in his suits.

There was that word again.  Love was troublesome, inefficient and messy.  He abandoned the mirror and retreated downstairs to his study, where he flopped onto his leather couch and put his feet up on an armrest.  God he felt like Sherlock.  He conducted his own little experiment and moaned.

“Bored!”  He called out and moaned again.  Yes, definitely his little brother.  Now all he needed was to shoot the wall.  A giggle escaped his lips as he played with the tie on his dressing gown. 

On lazy mornings, after a shared shower, Gregory wore nothing but this very gown to make them breakfast.  Mycroft shook his head.  No, best to keep his thoughts on other things.  He pulled himself off the sofa and went into the garden.  He noticed a few weeds sprouting amongst the roses.  If he sat and watched them long enough, would he be able to see them grow?  He sat in the nearest chair and put his feet up on another.  He stared at the weeds for an undetermined amount of time--perhaps a few minutes, perhaps a few hours.  They looked the same as they ever did. 

Mycroft realized the idiocy of his current activity.  With a flourish of the dressing gown he swept back into the house.  He wandered the rooms, unable to settle down to anything.  It must be withdrawal symptoms.  Yes, that was it. Too many evenings with takeaway, too much laughing and too much toe-curling sex.  His body was in shock from the sudden change in routine.  This illness would run its course, he would adjust and tomorrow he’d be back to himself.  The upright, above everything, forever in control ice man.  That was the real Mycroft Holmes.  Not some warm, affectionate boyfriend of a copper.  That was the fallacy.

Mycroft found himself at the attic door.  He hadn't been up here in quite some time.  He opened the door, stepped up the stairs and opened the first large box he saw.  He smiled as he recognized the contents--items from his uni days.  He pulled up an old chair and sorted through the collection.  He opened one text about Marxism and flicked through it.  Interesting concept, really.  He laid it to the side and opened a notebook.  Here were notes he'd taken, outlining why emotions were contributing to the downfall of England. Caring is not an advantage he’d written.  How true that was.  Right below it was another truth--love is a bourgeois construct.  He had it right back then.  If only he'd stuck to those principals. 

Mycroft finished in the attic and wandered into his room.  There, on the bedside table, sat Gregory's reading glasses and his book--some mass-produced popular paperback.  Mycroft had often encouraged him to read more of the classics, but he always came back with "I read to relax, Myc, and can’t when I’m trying to understand what the bloody hell is on the page."  Gregory was so middle class, so resistant to the finer things in life.

In fact, without him, Gregory would fade back into his boring existence, wearing ill-fitting suits to work, drinking coffee instead of tea, grabbing greasy takeaway instead of dining at fine restaurants.  Drinking beer from a bottle.  Mycroft shivered.  Yes, Gregory's life was about to take a significant downturn. 

What had he been thinking?  Love?  Love wasn't for people like him.  It was...

Mycroft's train of thought was interrupted by a key in the front door.  He frowned when Gregory walked into the house.  What was this?

The Detective Inspector walked into the sitting room and froze when he saw Mycroft.

"Yes, Gregory?  Did you forget something?  Don't worry...I'll have your things packed and returned to you tomorrow."

Greg frowned. "Things?  Packed?  What are you on about?"

"Well, I assumed you'd want your things.  Isn't that why you returned?"

Greg looked at him like he was an alien.

"Why would I want my things?  We had a row Myc.  We didn't break up."

"We...didn't?"

"Of course not."  Greg crossed the room and cupped Mycroft's face with his hands.  "For a genius, you're pretty daft sometimes."

"I....am?"

Greg gently kissed Mycroft.  "Definitely.  I love you, you great git."

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg and relaxed into his body. 

"I love you too."   


	3. Bolshy

Greg reached for the light switch and flicked it on. The basement illuminated and he made his way down the stairs. Old wardrobes lined the far wall, and throughout the room boxes lay stacked, each one neatly marked with an inventory of its contents.

"Christ Myc. Even your basement is dusted." It was true. Not a speck of dust lay on anything. It was as neat and tidy as a museum.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Mycroft's voice floated down the stairs. "Just because something is stored doesn't mean it should fall into disrepair."

Greg muttered something about very different lives, then went about his search for the tennis racquets. "Are you sure they're down here?"

Mycroft appeared in the doorway. "Check the wardrobes."

Greg opened the first one. Nothing but clothing. He shut it and opened the next one. More clothing, but something caught his eye. It was a long, heavy, military green coat. A matching uniform hung next to it, and a hat hung on a peg inside the door.

"What's this? Some sort of costume?" Greg pulled out the coat and looked at Mycroft.

"I…required the use of that last year." Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable.

"For what?"

"I can't share details, of course, but it was necessary in an operation." He neglected to mention the operation was extracting Sherlock from Eastern Europe.

"You went...in the field?" Greg looked worried and furious all at once. Why didn't you tell me? Were you hurt? Are you all right?

Mycroft crossed the room and rubbed his hands up and down Greg’s arms.

“I’m fine Gregory. No harm came to me. I’m as I ever was.”

Greg looked Mycroft up and down as if searching for sudden injuries. "Yeah, okay." Greg sighed heavily and Mycroft kissed him on the forehead. “But wherever the hell you went, don’t go there again.”

“Believe me, we shall not be visiting on holiday.”

Greg snorted and turned back to the coat. He had a sudden vision of Mycroft wearing it, speaking with a Slavic accent. Something in his gut turned over. He pulled it from the wardrobe.

"D'you think you could..." His mouth was suddenly dry and he swallowed with difficulty. "Maybe...try it on?" His feet shifted and he felt like an idiot.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "You would like that?" He asked quietly.

Greg's trousers shrank two sizes. He didn’t know how to convey yes, for the love of god please without seeming a pervert.

"If you wouldn't mind." He tried to look casual.

Mycroft studied him for a moment, then his eyes slid down to Greg's crotch. Greg stared at the ground. That man never missed anything, did he?

Mycroft took the outfit. "I'll return shortly. Perhaps you'd like to wait somewhere more comfortable?" He turned and headed up the stairs.

"Yeah, good idea." Greg said. He shut the wardrobes--all thoughts of tennis gone--and went upstairs. Did I just ask my boyfriend to play dress up? Never done that before. He went into the kitchen for a beer, and took a long pull. He hoped Myc wouldn't be weirded out. He went to the den and paced.

"So...what do you think?"

Greg turned around and was glad the side table next to him caught the beer bottle as it slipped from his fingers. There, in front of him, stood Mycroft dressed in a Serbian military uniform. The olive drab perfectly accentuated his red hair and fair features, and the long coat somehow made him look taller. He never thought it possible, but Mycroft looked even more formidable, more powerful, stronger than he usually did. And that was saying a lot.

“Bolshy.” Greg whispered. Such a hot bolshy.

“Strictly speaking, Gregory, Serbians…”

“Don’t care, Myc.” His brain short circuited, and all he could think was bolshy. Bolshy bolshy bolshy.

Mycroft studied his reaction a few moments more, then he began to speak in a heavy slavic tongue.

" Да ли ово свиђа, љубави?"

Greg's eyes widened. Was Mycroft speaking...Serbian to him?

"Ја могу да видим, од стране државе панталонама, да одговор је да."

"Ah...yeah." He rubbed the back of his head, but his eyes were absolutely frozen to his boyfriend. "I really have no idea what you're saying." He wanted to attack, press him against the wall and fuck him senseless, but the uniform was slightly intimidating.

Mycroft smiled. A little evilly, Greg thought. He slowly walked towards Greg, speaking in that language, while Greg grew rock hard. Mycroft stopped in front of him and reached out a hand. He cupped Greg's cheek and slowly ran his hand down his neck, shoulder and arm. Mycroft wrapped his hand around Greg’s wrist and suddenly whirled him around so that he was facing the end of the sofa. His hand, held by Mycroft, was twisted behind his back.

"Да ли знате моћ имате над мене? Морате. Ја бих радо то урадили само да видим израз на вашем лицу." 

Mycroft pressed his body against Greg’s back, letting him feel his erection through his heavy uniform. He pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, then released his hand and pushed him down over the arm of the couch.

Bolshy. It was his last coherent thought for more than hour.


	4. Axis

Greg Lestrade stopped by the good coffee shop on his way to work.  After all, it  _was_  his birthday and a treat was in order.  The morning began wonderfully--Mycroft woke him with gentle kisses that bloomed into a toe curling shag.  Greg wouldn’t have minded staying in bed with him all day, but Mycroft’s full day of meetings thought otherwise.  He was, however, promised a special birthday celebration in the evening.  If Greg had his way, it would involve an extravagant dessert eaten in bed naked.  Followed by lots of orgasms. 

Greg wound his way through the halls of New Scotland Yard and settled in his office.  He’d just started in on the mountain of paperwork when Anthea appeared in the doorway.

“Detective inspector?  Come with me please.” 

“What?” Greg looked at her blankly. 

“Sir, your presence is required elsewhere.”  She gave a look that broached no disobedience.

“But I have to…”

“Already dealt with.”

Greg raised his eyebrows.  “Okay…”  He shut off the computer and grabbed his jacket.  “Will I be back…”

“Doubtful.” 

“And you’re sure…”

“Absolutely.”

He rolled his eyes but followed her down the stairs and out of the building.  How the fuck did she always know what he was going to say? 

Anthea opened the door of a shiny black car, waited for Greg to climb in, then followed.  The car sped away and as usual, Anthea was focused on her Blackberry. 

“I thought Mycroft promised not to kidnap me anymore.”

“Strictly speaking, this isn’t a kidnapping.”

“Sure as hell feels like one.”

The edges of her mouth turned up slightly before she caught herself.  Greg sighed and looked out the window.  The edges of London thinned into the countryside.  He had no clue as to the destination and just hoped he wouldn’t be dumped at the side of the road somewhere.

Finally, they stopped at what looked to be a private racecourse.  Anthea motioned to the low building beside it.  “You’ll want to go in there, detective inspector.” 

“You’re not coming with?”

“Not this time.”  She gave him a brief nod and climbed back into the car.

Greg watched the car pull away and sighed.  What kind of case was Mycroft onto now?  He stepped into the building and saw a tall, bespoke-suited gentleman leaning on an umbrella.  Greg approached Mycroft and gave him a quick peck on theheek.

“What's going on?”

Mycroft hung his umbrella on his arm and wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist.  Their lips met in a slow glide before Mycroft pulled back a few inches.

“Happy birthday, my dearest Gregory.”

Greg grinned.  “A birthday abduction.  Never gotten one of those.”

Mycroft chuckled and gave Greg a quick kiss.  “Not quite.  Come with me.”  He put his arm around Greg and led him to the far door.  They stepped into the sunlight and Greg found himself next to a racecourse, empty but for the two of them.  A large box, the size of Mini, sat beside it.  A huge red bow lay on top.

“If you would do the honours,” Mycroft said, gesturing to the pull string on the monstrosity.

Greg pulled and the box separated, each side falling to the ground.  There, where the box had been, was a shiny motorcycle.  To be specific, it was a Bial XK57, his dream bike.  They wouldn't even be released to the market for another eight months.  Not that he could afford it. 

“Myc!  This is…do you know…how did you…I can’t accept…”  He found himself unable to finish a complete sentence.

Mycroft held up a hand.  “Please let me explain.  As I'm sure you're aware, this particular model is not yet available.  However, I _was_ able to procure it for the day.  So this…”  he said, gesturing to the course, “is your gift.  An afternoon putting the bike through its paces.  I’m given to understand there’s also an off road course on the other side of the tarmac.”

“Really?”  Greg grinned from ear to ear.

Mycroft nodded.  “You’ll find a helmet and riding gear back in the building.”

Greg threw his arms around his boyfriend and covered his face and neck with kisses.  When he was released, Mycroft laughed.  “Go…have fun.  Stay out as long as you want.  It’s yours for the day.”

Greg hurried inside and suited up.  He came back out, riding leathers on, helmet in hand, and slid his free right hand to the back of Mycroft's neck.  He reached up and gave him a passionate kiss.

"Enjoy yourself, love."  Mycroft chuckled.

Greg grinned unabashedly and pulled the helmet onto his head.  He stood and gazed at the beautiful Bial for a few moments before mounting it.  The bike roared to life, and with a backwards glance in Mycroft's direction, Greg shifted the bike into gear and took off.

He rounded the first curve easily and headed for the second.  The track was smooth and the bike beyond words.  The machinery between his legs was truly a work of art.  It became an extension of his body, obeying each whim without hesitation.  Greg increased his speed and tore it up for the next several laps.  He eventually noticed the entrance to the off-road course and followed it.  It was paved just smoothly as the oval track, but provided scenery and a sense of truly flying. 

Greg laughed out loud.  He felt like a teenager again, albeit one with a wet dream of a motorcycle.  This was the best birthday of his life.  He had a wonderful boyfriend, and now he was testing one of the best bikes in the world; at whatever speed he chose, for as long as he chose.  He revelled in the freedom of it.

The off-path track was long and twisted, and Gregory drove the length of it several times.   He began to think of Mycroft.  Who, despite his schedule, never made Greg feel anything less than desired and treasured.  They’d been together for almost a year now, and things continually got better and better.  Greg blinked as he realized he never wanted it to end; he wanted to spend the rest of his life showing Mycroft just how loved he was.  He smiled to himself.  Perhaps it was time to surprise Mycroft with a gift of his own.  The thought settled into his chest and felt warm and true.  The anniversary of their first date, in a month’s time, would be perfect.  He’d go ring shopping soon.  Wonderful, amazing Mycroft, who had arranged this present, who was probably standing beside the track waiting for him.  He needed to be properly thanked.  He downshifted and headed in. 

Mycroft was indeed beside the track, but lounging in a lawn chair placed under a large umbrella.  He looked up from his mobile and pocketed it as Greg approached.  Greg brought the bike to a stop and turned it off, then planted the kickstand and removed his helmet and jacket.  He bounded over to Mycroft.

"Well Gregory?  Did it meet your expectations?"

Greg planted a firm kiss on Mycroft's lips.  "It was unbelievable.  Amazing.  Almost perfect."

Mycroft frowned slightly.  "Almost?"

"You weren't with me, now were you?"

The edges of Mycroft's mouth turned up.  "Ah yes.  Well, that isn't my sort of thing."

"But you understand its importance to me.  God I love you."  He bent over and planted another kiss on Mycroft.  "Thank you.  Seriously.  Thank you."  Greg turned and looked lovingly at the bike.  "I'm going to have to get one someday."

"Actually..."

"Hm?"  Greg turned back to Mycroft, who was biting his lip.

"I'm afraid I wasn't entirely truthful earlier."

"Oh no.  You didn't kidnap the bike too, did you?  Please don't tell me the designer is stashed somewhere in an empty warehouse..."

"Nothing so dramatic.  It would seem...in fact...that I _did_ purchase the Bial."  He pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Greg.  "For you."

Greg's eyebrows shot into his hair as he read the title, legally placing the motorcycle in his ownership.  His jaw dropped and he gaped at Mycroft, words beyond him.

"I feared that if I informed you beforehand, you would reject it and refuse to take it for a ride."

"Yeah—I would have."  Greg stared at the paperwork once more. The Bial was his.  He loved the bike.   But it was too much.   He stared into the hopeful look on Mycroft's face.

"I'll accept it on one condition."

"That being...?"

"You ride with me sometimes.  Like right now."

"Gregory.  I couldn't possibly--"

"That's my condition Myc.  Take it or leave it."  He crossed his arms and tried to look stern. 

Mycroft sighed.  "Very well.  However, at the moment there isn't another..."

"Hold that thought."  Greg rushed into the building and returned a few moments later with a second jacket and helmet.

"Anthea."  Mycroft said the name darkly, like a curse.

"Anthea."  Greg agreed happily. 

Greg pulled Mycroft out of the chair, and helped him into the riding gear.  He got back onto the bike, and waited patiently for Mycroft to mount and settle behind him, arms around his waist. 

"Not too fast, Gregory.  If you wouldn't mind."

Greg smiled.  "Hold on tight love."  He started the bike, released the kickstand and off they went.

**Author's Note:**

> "Electric", by Pet Shop Boys:
> 
> http://www.petshopboys.co.uk/product/albums/electric
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLTT1MWKqBHEZjHoKMpmRJzzwexOLLXCNa


End file.
